


A Dream of Daisies

by acidtonguejenny



Series: The Language of Flowers [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Curtain Fic, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Revised Version, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9098683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/acidtonguejenny
Summary: A tradition from days past, for when a lonely omega had no other recourse...

Chamomile Greenthroat wants for only one thing in life: children, and he's running out of time. Feeling as though he has no other option, he invokes an old ritual, signaling to the local alphas that he wants to have a child. He hopes for a response. He's surprised by what he gets.
Wherein everyone may be described as "adorable" and the world is happiness, sunshine, flowers, and baby fever.
4/18: Revised version! New ending!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLoveSlug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoveSlug/gifts).



> Characters and premise by TheLoveSlug, who very nicely did not bash my head in when I stole them :''D 
> 
> This is flagrantly indulgent ABO fic. There is no social commentary here, yaay.
> 
> [You will probably need this.](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/) 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Chamomile Greenthroat enjoyed his life.

He helped old widow Lyesmith do his shopping and cleaning, as well as poor Maggie Brownbird, whose health was not good and whose husband traveled. He kept the counter at the Mavis’s store one week a month while she visited her sister’s family in the next town. He watched the little ones while the Goldenbough Town Council convened, and every Thirdday while the book club met at the library. He made a living out of helping out around town, and in return when he was not paid in coin, he was rewarded in goods such as food, firewood, and tea leaves, or help around the house and in his garden. 

He kept a tidy home that was warm and well-stocked with fluffy pillows and thick quilts. His grandmother’s books filled many shelves, and kept company with his father’s whittled knick-knacks. His mother’s painted murals adorned more walls than not, turning the living room into a brightly lit meadow, the master bedroom into a star-filled night sky, the nursery into a springtime forest. 

He remembered his mother craning perilously atop a short ladder, stretching to shade a hanging blossom, while his father carved a little goat for the neighbors’ newborn. 

Chamomile stood now in the doorway to the nursery, looking into it, and quietly despaired. 

He was well in his thirties, and still unattached. He dearly wanted children, craved the warmth of a little body wiggling in his arms, wished for small voices and laughter to fill his home with cozy chaos.

He was running out of time.

Chamomile chewed his lip as he stared at the antique crib by the window. It was built by his great-great-grandmother. The little blanket was sewn by his great-grandfather, and the tiny pillow embroidered by his grandfather. His father had carved the mobile that hung above it, to the little dripping raindrops and petals matched the flowering trees on the walls. 

He ached to look at it, in his heart and in his stomach. 

There was something he could do. It was a thought he’d had, on occasion. On his loneliest nights, and when he drank too much wine. A tradition from days past, for when a lonely omega had no other recourse. 

He’d read of it in one of his grandmother’s books when he was a young man, and had first started to feel the stirrings of desire. A bundle of sticky catchfly and daisies, tied with grass and placed on the flat stone by his walk for no longer than five days. If he was lucky, an alpha would give an answer in fern, or ivy, or white heather. Chamomile imagined of a sprig of forsythia left on his stone and shivered. 

Every now and then, over the years, he had taken the book down and thumbed its spine, considering, and each time he had hidden it deeper and higher in the shelves. Now he needed to drag a kitchen chair over and stretch to retrieve it from where he’d last stashed it. 

Though if truth be told, he needn’t have bothered; he remembered the composition of the bouquet correctly. Catchfly for an invitation, daisies for new beginnings, and grass for submission. 

He grew all those things in his garden. Perhaps he had known it would come to this, one day.

Chamomile chewed his lip anxiously as he took up his shears, gloves, and a pail of water, and went out the kitchen door to his garden. He chose two modest blooms from his daisy bush and a sprig of catchfly that was deeply pink. For the grass, he pried up a few lush strands at the base. 

His stomach was in knots as he knelt to leave his painstakingly made charm on the stone, where it was sheltered by his mailbox. It was twilight by that time, and he stopped to admire the horizon. Goldenbough lay beneath, down the hill, and the lake beyond it. If he squinted, he could make out a few figures walking the streets, but by and large the townspeople were in their homes for the night.

Chamomile wondered if his plan would work, and if it did, what alpha would answer him. There was Quizzel Firefingers, the blacksmith, whose broad shoulders and large, sooty muscles Chamomile sometimes stopped to admire. He thought of a daughter with his green eyes and his laugh. Or perhaps a son, with Tabitha Lightwind’s flyaway blond hair and her shrewd smile. And one must not forget Roa Fishcatcher, who was so very tall, and calm as the lake surface. 

There were any number of fine alphas whose attentions Chamomile would count himself blessed to receive. Upon consideration, he found he had no preference between the blond child, or the green-eyed child, or the calm-mannered child. Any child would make him happy. 

With a last look at the town, and a wish on his charm, he returned to his home and closed the door. 

*

The next morning there was a bottle of milk on the stone next to his charm, but no answer.

Be still, he urged his racing heart. The only one to have seen the charm yet would be the milkman. Patience.

So he marshaled himself and made the walk to town, where he went about his business. His neighbors, he knew, would see the charm and spread word. The tradition had not been enacted in many years to his knowledge, but parents and grandparents would know it, and soon the gossip mill would ensure that  _ everyone _ knew.

He blushed fiercely as he unlocked Andee Flowingscript’s bookstore and flipped the sign. Andee’s mother-in-law had been doing poorly as of late, and Chamomile had spent the better part of the week minding the shop for him. 

He sold Andee’s stock of  _ The Language of Flowers _ by Jhula Rowanbow, three copies, and one book on traditional courtship rituals. He thought nothing of it. 

A little before dinnertime he locked up and walked home, smiling at those he passed on the way. When he reached the little cobble path up to his door, he kept his eyes firmly raised as he checked his mailbox. It was empty; he had not been expecting anything.

Finally, belly squirming with nervous energy, he looked down, and gasped.

_ Two _ little bundles were neatly placed next to his charm. One was fern and chrysanthemum. The other was sweet pea and fern again. Fern, meaning fascination, confidence, shelter. Good, proper alpha traits. Chrysanthemum for affection, support, and cheerfulness. The sweet pea stumped him, somewhat. To his memory it symbolized goodbyes, and parting lovers. Much more appropriate to receive after—

He blushed, and went inside to fetch his own copy of  _ The Language of Flowers _ , which helpfully reminded him that it could also mean  _ blissful pleasure _ . Chamomile abandoned the book in favor of preparing a calming tea, his cheeks glowing so intensely they felt warm. 

The next morning there was yet another bundle, this one garlic flower and a bloom Chamomile could not immediately identify. His encyclopedia pronounced it a cactus flower, and  _ The Language _ informed him it mean  _ endurance _ . 

Heavens. That presented quite a picture. 

At the bookstore that day he was forced to turn away Addicus Blackearth when he came looking for  _ The Language of Flowers _ .

“Your, ah, elders might be able to help you with your problem.” A blushing Chamomile offered the pouting young alpha, trying desperately not to make assumptions. 

There were three more bundles when he returned home, and two the next day when he woke. 

He was a smiling, stammering mess when he spoke to people in town, as the week drew on. He was enormously flattered by the response to his charm, finding himself pleased even with the bundles that indicated platonic sentiments such as friendship and a willingness to help. 

It was difficult not to try to match bundles to alphas as he passed them, or they came into Andee’s shop. Could lsagail Littlebird have left him the yellow tulip?  _ There’s sunshine in your smile _ . Or Harbor Gutbleed the viscaria?  _ Dance with me _ .  

His grandmother’s book told him to let the bundles collect until the end of the five days, but it pained him to watch the flowers grow limp and and the greens dull. In the spirit of compromise, he placed them all in their own jars and teacups and mugs with water, and toyed with the idea of cutting the stems. 

The next morning there was a new bundle, and another in the evening that was left in its own little jar. This discovery made pleased him, and he made a mental note of that one, with it’s budding anemone. 

The morning of the fifth and final day, Chamomile paused to admire his collection. The flat stone was too small for its many burdens, and pots and cups and jars of flowers littered the base of his mailbox. He felt loved, swollen with happiness.

There were no new bundles that morning, but the evening brought one. He came home late that night, having stayed to have coffee with members of the book club, and almost missed the latest, and final answer to his charm among the disorder.

According to his grandmother’s book, an alpha’s placement of their answering charm in connotation to the omega’s charm was significant. The further away, the more platonic the feelings of the alpha. The closer, the more passionate. Many of his charms had been placed an interested, but seemly few inches away, even as their number grew. A handful were firmly in friendly-and-helpful territory. The  _ strength _ and  _ endurance _ alpha’s had been boldly placed, it’s leaves almost touching his. 

This latest addition was almost on top of his charm, and most definitely touching it.

The placement of his final offering was quite possibly incidental. The remaining free space on his stone was mostly around his charm, and the last bundle was quite a large one. A modest bouquet even. 

All of the other charms included only a sprig or two of each flower, and none had more than three types. 

Amidst them, this bouquet was  _ something _ . Fern and garlic, yes, but also the white heather he had imagined, and ivy with white tendrils, which was  _ affection _ but also  _ anxious to please _ . There were gardenia ( _ secret love _ ) and blue violets ( _ faithfulness _ ) and tulips, both variegated ( _ beautiful eyes _ ) and red ( _ a declaration of love _ ). Bluebells ( _ humility _ ), camellias ( _ desire _ ), and flax ( _ domesticity _ ) joined them, and in the center there was a single gloxinia in mid-bloom, which meant  _ love at first sight _ . 

It was not a pretty bouquet, busy as it was, and it had obviously been designed with its message in mind over composition and aesthetic. That meant nothing to Chamomile, who nearly swooned as he picked it up in his hands, hopelessly charmed by the earnestness of his admirer. His heart pounded as he buried his face in it to smell its confused sweet scent. 

There was no mistaking the meaning of this offering: this alpha wanted to be more than the father of his children, but his mate as well. His partner in life. Chamomile, excitedly examining each wonderful bloom, could not imagine denying them. 

He only wondered who it was, and why, when their feeling was so strong, they had not approached him sooner. 

He moved the charms into the house, trimmed all the stems and put the lot of them into a short pot with water. The pot he placed in his rear-facing kitchen window, where he could enjoy them without seeming to flaunt his favors. 

The bouquet, when he sat down with it, he found was bound together by meticulously carved and lacquered wooden rings. 

No, it was a single, spiraling piece, thin and yet supple enough to stretch, just a bit. Each side bore delicate carved designs.

It was just the right size to be worn on his wrist. 

Chamomile considered it for a time. Wearing it would be tantamount to accepting the mysterious alpha as his mate, and that was all that made him hesitate: the mystery.

No self-respecting alpha would gift an omega with something like this, the labor of one’s hands, if they themselves had not crafted it, and there was only one individual in Goldenbough who could create such a piece: Lark Woodwhistler. 

Of course, he knew him. Goldenbough was a small village; it was a wonder they were not  _ all _ related. However, Lark was a famously solitary sort. He lived on the edge of town opposite of Chamomile, and did his business through Mavis Silverscales’ general store. His pieces sold for large sums, and brought outside custom to Goldenbough. One might even call him famous.

Chamomile knew him to be somewhat intimidating in his silence, though by all indication he was as good a man as any. He did good work and priced it fairly, returned commissions in a timely manner, and gave his services in charity when those in need could not afford them. No roofs leaked in Goldenbough, no matter how severe the summer storms or frequent the spring rains. 

Chamomile dimly recalled him as a tall man with hair more red than blonde, and perhaps hazel eyes. Chamomile thought he must be in his forties, or early in his fifties. 

The last time they met, if he remembered correctly, had been some months ago as he stood in for Corte Bluesky as the doctor’s assistant. Lark came in with a smashed finger, which he had wrapped days ago and attempted to ignore, but the pain had grown too intense. Chamomile had washed in it hot salt water, and wrapped it again after Doctor Longfeather’s examination. 

He had not noticed anything amiss in their interaction that day, though there had not been much to dissect. Lark was clipped in his answers and did not speak unless spoken to. Chamomile, sensing his preference, had not tried to engage him in conversation. 

Now at his kitchen table, he toyed with the cuff, and squeezed it gently as he came to at least  _ one _ decision. 

He pulled a few blooms from Lark’s bouquet and set to fashioning his answer. Traditionally, the omega’s response was composed of flowers from their chosen alpha’s charm and the original charm. Chamomile bound together his grass and daisies, drooping by this point, to stems of white heather, bluebells, camellia, and flax. 

He added fresh forsythia after a moment’s thought and quick trip to his garden. 

He placed the new bundle on his flat stone, and the last of Lark Woodwhistler’s bouquet in water. 

The cuff he placed on his bedside table, for the time being.

The alpha—Lark—would come to his room tomorrow night, and fate willing, give him a child. As to the cuff and the offer it represented, he would make his decision in the morning. 

*

Chamomile woke the next day from a restless sleep. His insides roiled the whole day through, dampening his appetite. He drank a cup of tea for breakfast, and took a ham roll to the bookshop with him but did not eat it. Lunch came with the offering of an apple from Rheta Lightfoot and her produce stand across the street, but the acid did not mix well with his excited stomach. 

News of his choice spread, and by lunchtime he thought he could see its effects. Some alphas seemed to avert their eyes when he crossed paths with them, while others approached him to give friendly pats, handshakes, and well wishes. Unspoken but communicated was acceptance of his choice. 

Quizzel Firefingers gave him a broad smile and a nod as Chamomile passed his forge. Tabitha Lightwind came to the bookshop and, in casual conversation, gave him her mother’s recipe for a tea to settle the stomach. Roa Fishcatcher waved to him cheerily on their way home, the day’s catch braced on their shoulders.

Lark Woodwhistler, he did not see, but that was not unusual. 

His answering bundle was gone when he returned that evening, the final stage of ritual. Chamomile let himself into his house with shaking hands. He forced himself to eat supper, however light of one, and brewed a pot of his namesake before bed. He anticipated difficulty sleeping, and he did not want to lie and stare at the ceiling all night, waiting for Lark. Though, perhaps that was inevitable. 

He did, eventually, sleep, but it was a gentle sleep. The sound of heavy boots on his floors woke him, though they stepped quietly. 

He had rolled onto his side as he slept, his back to the door, and he fixed his eyes on his quilt, focusing on keeping his body relaxed. 

The footsteps stopped in his doorway. He heard deep, measured breaths. Perhaps Lark Woodwhistler was nervous too. 

There was a sound, like fabric falling to the floor. Rustling. Despite his attempts to control it, Chamomile’s breath was coming quicker, louder. He closed his mouth, hoping Lark could not hear him. He did not want to betray his nerves. 

The bed dipped as Lark sat on the edge, and a hand laid itself on Chamomile’s blanketed hip. Proudly, he did not flinch. Lark’s touch was gentle, a question, but Chamomile was distracted by the breadth of his hand, and the warmth of it. He felt himself relax, uncurl a little.

Lark evidently took this as the answer to his inquiry, and joined him under the quilt, huddling close.

Chamomile sighed his pleasure, startled. Lark felt enormous at his back, his bracketing arms heavy and welcome. He had removed his coat and boots, but still wore his shirt and trousers. He tucked his face against Chamomile’s neck, and fit his knees into the backs of Chamomile’s. He was like a furnace at his back, almost stiflingly hot, but Chamomile was cold-natured and soaked in his heat happily. 

He smelled like cedar, sawdust, and well-worn clothing, the heady scent of alpha pervasive beneath it all. It made Chamomile’s toes curl beneath the quilt. 

For a time Lark simply breathed against him, until Chamomile’s pattering heart calmed to match and their breaths came in tandem. It was not terribly long before Chamomile was a gooey, melted puddle of an omega in his embrace, drifting fast into what promised to be a lovely, deep sleep, and it was then, when he was so relaxed he veritably purred, that Lark made his move. 

Lips touched his nape. They kissed a slow trail upwards and into his curls. Chamomile arched his neck, turned his face, and the kisses continued on his cheek. He smiled, and felt a puff of air that might have been a laugh. 

Lark’s broad hands, previously stroking his forearms in long, sedate pets, moved. One wrapped around both Chamomile’s hands, massaging between the small bones, while the other moved to his chest, spanning its width. Lark’s fingers slipped between the buttons, rough tips scratching Chamomile’s skin.

Chamomile could feel Lark’s hardness at his seat, and he moved on it in encouragement. Lark shuddered, cupped his chin, and pulled him into a kiss that was deep and coaxing.  

As he clutched Lark’s lapels and returned his kiss, Chamomile found that, now, he was hardly nervous at all.

Lark pulled Chamomile beneath him, pinning him with his weight, insinuating one long thigh between Chamomile’s legs so he could sway on it. He fumbled Lark’s buttons open, occasionally breaking away to pull at his pants, indecisive. His own nightshirt was rucked up over his thighs, over his belly, and Lark made a throaty noise at his nakedness beneath. 

Chamomile’s inner thighs were slick with excitement, and when his nightshirt was no longer an obstacle he pulled Lark’s hips close with his knees. Lark groaned into his mouth, hands falling to his hipbones.

“Where did you get the gloxinia?” Chamomile heard himself ask, distantly. 

Lark laughed. He rocked his erection into the hot, soft crevice between Chamomile’s thighs. “Wavecrest.” He said, naming a port town two days south.

Chamomile asked, “Is that what took you so long?” His voice unsteady as he hitched one leg high on Lark’s hip. 

Lark’s rocking slowed. He took Chamomile’s face in his hands and met their eyes, brushing a stray curl aside with his thumb. “Would that I had acted sooner,” He said roughly, sincere. 

Chamomile licked his lips, nodding as Lark kissed him, and he was still kissing him as he pressed inside.

Chamomile gasped against his lips, whimpered. He was excited and his body ready for the intrusion; it was his first time, but there was no pain. Lark entered him slowly, so every new inch was craved, and when his hips came flush to Chamomile’s they both cried out. 

Their lovemaking was like Lark’s kisses: slow, deep, patient. Lark’s rhythm was steady and rolling, and he ran his hands over Chamomile’s arms and sides and neck and chest over and over again. Chamomile, his fingers slipping and trembling, unbuttoned first his nightshirt, and then Lark’s shirt. Both were summarily discarded, if clumsily, because neither wanted to separate.

Chamomile clung to Lark’s middle, pulling them close, until Lark was on his elbows and Chamomile’s back ached for the sharp bow he maintained, but he longed for that closeness. 

Lark seemed fascinated by his dark curls, combing his fingers through them and burying his nose in them. Chamomile imagined the rat’s nest he would have to untangle in the morning and could not help but laugh, which earned him a harder thrust of hips. 

When his first climax came he sank his teeth into the meat of Lark’s biceps, whining as the rush tore through him and his cock spurted. He felt his muscles clamp down as they would to trap a knot in his body, but Lark had not come yet, so they only squeezed him mightily. Lark ground his forehead into the pillow by Chamomile’s ear, his hands fisted in the sheets, and he made such wonderful noises, but he resisted. 

He was still inside for a moment, taking deep, bracing breaths, before he began to move again.

Chamomile’s body was sparking with pleasure, twitching. Aftershocks made him shiver, made him clench sporadically, which raised grunts from his partner. He felt so weak he could not hold himself up, and it was welcome when Lark got his knees beneath him and bodily pulled him up, into his lap. 

Chamomile managed to drape himself over Lark’s shoulders like a blanket and hold on. Lark arranged Chamomile’s legs to his satisfaction, hooked his hands beneath his bottom, and resumed his motions.

Gradually, Chamomile returned to himself, whereupon he realized he was showering Lark’s neck and shoulder with kisses and saw no reason to stop. He was free with his pleasured sounds, his whines and groans and gasps, and felt Lark’s hands tighten on him with each one. He could feel his slickness running out of him, surely making a mess of the sheets, and shivered to think of it dripping down Lark’s sack. 

“I bet your baby will be big like you,” he mused, going high on the word  _ like _ as Lark’s hips snapped into him. “I’ve always liked red hair.”

“Red hair with curls, what do you think?” He continued, as Lark groaned helplessly into his hair. “Hazel eyes...ah!” 

Lark tossed him to the mattress, and flipped him onto his belly before he could move. Chamomile lay stunned as he felt Lark move down the bed. Surely he wasn’t  _ leaving _ —

But no, that was his mouth between Chamomile’s legs, and his tongue snaking out, and his teeth nipping ever so gently. 

Chamomile smothered his cries in his pillow, hips twitching after Lark’s face. He felt a  _ gush _ down below as his muscles spasmed, and heard Lark’s answering moan at his flavor. He heard another sound, and realized it was Lark working himself with his hand, aided by Chamomile’s slickness.

Blushing fiercely, Chamomile felt a telltale pull in his gut and whimpered. “Lark,” he called feebly, forced to emerge from the pillow to gasp for air.

Lark climbed up his body, jerked his hips, and entered him once more in a smooth slide, just as Chamomile wailed. 

Lark gasped, his grip on Chamomile’s hips bruisingly strong, his strokes gone short and sharp. Chamomile felt his knot swelling, and desperately tried to hold his orgasm at bay until it was fully formed.

It seemed an age passed before Lark sank into him a final time, his knot huge and hard and better than anything Chamomile had ever felt, save for perhaps the moment when he finally let go, and sobbed as he involuntarily clenched down around it. 

Lark bowed over him, breathing hard. His elbows trembled with the effort of supporting his weight, and Chamomile could not stop himself from poking the inside of one, causing it to collapse and Lark with it. Lark growled as he giggled, unrepentant. 

His giggles dissolved into gasps as Lark tugged gently on his knot. 

“Do that again.” Chamomile urged him. 

“Going to have to.” Lark grunted, pushing up. “Hold on,” he said, and rolled over. Chamomile thought he would arrange them on their sides, but he rolled again, onto his back, so Chamomile lay on top of him. Lark pulled a pillow over and pushed it behind himself, propping the pair of them up.

“Try that,” he said, settling back. 

Chamomile turned to look at him, confused. “What?”

“Move your hips.” Lark said. “Like this.” His hands led Chamomile in a small, circular motion that pulled Lark’s knot in him, pushing it into all the best places inside.

“Oh!”

Lark laughed breathlessly. “Yeah. Like that.” He left his hands rested on Chamomile’s waist; the omega needed no further coaching.

“Why does this feel...oh...so good?” Chamomile asked. His head fell back onto Lark’s shoulder.

“I could not say.” Lark said. “It’s good for catching, or so I’m told.” 

One hand moved to lie warm and heavy on Chamomile’s middle, beneath his belly and over his womb. Chamomile rested his own over it and wove their fingers together, still chasing that sensation.

“I might be able to go again in the morning,” Lark told him gruffly. “I’m not young.” He said, apologetic.   
“Mm.” Chamomile sighed, liquid and pleased. “Alright. You don’t have to wake me.”

Lark swore against his nape.

*

Lark took him at his word, and Chamomile came to the next morning slowly, disturbed by a steady rocking. It was only just gray-dawn outside, going by the light through the curtains. More asleep than not, Chamomile got his hands and knees beneath him and pushed back into Lark’s thrusts until he felt the knot. They came together and returned to sleep, mutually tied. 

When he next woke Lark was gone, but the bed was still warm and there was a sweet pea on the pillow by his head.  _ Thank you for a lovely time _ . Chamomile chuckled, curled his fingers gently around the stem, and slept for a bit longer. 

When he rose for the day it was with a bounce. He was tired despite his rest, but it was a pleasant sort of tired, well-earned, and though he ached in some places it was a very  _ nice _ sort of ache. He made himself a large breakfast and ate with good cheer, watching bluebirds hop about in the window box outside.

After breakfast he stripped the bed sheets and put on fresh ones, humming as he worked. He was fluffing a pillow when his eyes landed on Lark’s cuff.

Chamomile chewed his lip. He picked it up and sat on the bed with it in his hands, sweeping his thumb over the etched designs. Here a swirl, there a mountain, there a simple etching that evoked a bird. He put it on just to know what it felt like to wear it, and decided he liked the coolness of the lacquer and the slight pressure of the loops clinging to him. 

He left the bedroom to stand in the nursery, and eventually to sit in the old rocker with its wobbly leg. He closed his eyes and pictured a baby in the crib, kicking its legs and fussing. In his mind’s eye he saw Lark come into the room and take the baby into his arms, holding it against his chest. He would, Chamomile thought, be as gentle and patient with a child as he had been last night. 

Chamomile got up to do his washing. He took the cuff off to scrub his sheets, but put it back on when he was done, after drying his hands. After hanging the sheets he tended the garden, and when he finished that it was time for lunch. 

Lark’s bouquet was on his kitchen table, in a much-loved but cracked teapot. Chamomile had left it there with the intention of seeing what kind of arrangement he could force on it, but now he found he liked the haphazard way it had made it into the teapot. 

He fixed a simple meal from the remains of his breakfast and ate as he studied the bouquet.

Confidence and shelter, strength and courage. Protection. Wishes coming true. Affection, and a will to please. Secret love and  _ I’ll always be true _ , and beautiful eyes and  _ I love you _ . Humility and longing. Domesticity. Love at first sight.

So ardent a proposal as to almost be daunting. Lark promised everything an omega could want of their alpha, with a flattering, if untraditional diffidence. 

_ Love at first sight _ . Chamomile tried to remember when he first met Lark Woodwhistler. He would have been very young, ten or eleven most likely. That could not have been what Lark meant. He would have to ask him. 

It was Seventhday. He did not need to attend the bookshop today, but he did have a few things to do in town Lara Everglow and her wife Gergie were old; he helped with their washing on Seventhday, and he owed Peter Riverbook a clutch of sweet onions besides. 

He cleaned soil from Lark’s cuff with the damp corner of a cloth, until the lacquer gleamed, and was wearing it when he left. 

It was an odd day in town. His neighbors and friends didn’t greet him any differently. The interested, side-long looks, he told himself, were only his imagination. The cuff was largely obscured by his sleeve, but even still he felt as if eyes were on it. He fought not to scratch it. 

He struggled with the knowledge that everyone he passed knew how he’d spent his night, and that many were probably trying to puzzle out his partner. Goldenbough was a small village. They’d suss Lark out before too long.

Chamomile was forced to cover a smile at the thought. Lark seemed the type to resent the attention. 

Lara Everglow raised her eyebrows at Lark’s cuff when Chamomile removed it, along with his vest, and set them aside to wash her linens. From the corner of his eye he caught her leaning over the arm of her rocker, peering at it thoughtfully. 

She didn’t say anything for a long while. He had almost finished rinsing her sheets when she ventured, “Are you pleased?”

Chamomile pinked. “I. I suppose I am.” He coughed. 

She tilted her head towards the cuff. “I suppose you are.” She said, with a smirk to her knitting. 

Peter Riverbook didn’t notice it, but his husband did. Chamomile saw his double-take and pretended not to as his cheeks grew warm. Tomas winked as he gave Chamomile a basket of cheese and homemade beer bread in return for the onions.

*

Lark came again that night. Chamomile, feeling bold, had gone to bed with a high fire in the grate and sans nightshirt, burrowed beneath his quilt. He shivered as he waited, but it was worth it for the sound Lark made when he pulled back the blanket to join him.

Lark’s hands were cold, chilled by the night air during his walk, and Chamomile wanted to catch them and warm them in the dark, hot places of his body. Lark was amiable to this; he slipped the fingers of one hand beneath Chamomile’s arm, and those of the other between his legs, where they were met with evidence of Chamomoile’s anticipation.

Lark exhaled gustily by his ear at that, and Chamomile grinned. 

“Forsythia,” he said, and squeaked as cold fingers delved into his body. 

They made love with Chamomile propped up, a pillow beneath his back and his shoulders on the mattress. For a time, fingers were all that Lark would give him; the older man seemed to take amusement from his growing impatience, and only smiled infuriatingly as Chamomile grew to whine and tug at him with grasping hands. 

“Enough, please!” 

“Please, what?” Lark murmured back, but he was moving,  _ finally _ , into position, and from there on Chamomile could only groan. 

After, they lay close together, and Chamomile remembered something.

“Gloxinia.” He said suddenly, as he had the thought. He turned his head towards Lark, who was looking back at him. His eyes were indeed hazel: brown and green, and ringed in deep blue. “When?”

Lark had advised him to keep his hips up, even after his knot had gone down. It was an odd position to have a conversation in, with his legs sprawled wide, but curiously comfortable. 

Lark’s gaze drifted. He became suddenly fascinated with a freckle on Chamomile’s shoulder.

“I believe you were sixteen.” He said finally. “Your mother had died the summer before. It was flooding season.”

Chamomile’s eyes were fixed on him, but narrow with concentration as he thought back. Much of his memory from the time after his mother’s death was blurry, confused with grief, but Lark Woodwhistler was an infrequent enough player in his life that, by presence, alone he stood out in memory. With the added filter of flooding season... 

“The Honeywill’s house.” He realized. 

Lark nodded.

The Honeywills were the only family unfortunate enough that year to take damage from the floodwaters. The river broke its banks the day after the lake flooded, and water crept on them from multiple fronts. It broke windows and left a spider-web network of cracks in many of the walls. When the water receded, the village came out in droves to repair the damage.

Chamomile remembered those few days with a strange fondness. The Honeywills were devastated by the loss of possessions and the damage to their home, but were heartened by the many people who had come out in the aftermath. Chamomile had helped Julep Honeywill bring all their things out of the home and lay them on blankets to dry in the sun, and her daughter Elise to search for some precious things along the edges of the lake. 

He knew Lark had been there; he directed helpers doing structural repairs and did much of the work himself. By and large their paths had not crossed, but Chamomile remembered one particular moment with crystalline clarity, whereupon feeling an itch at his back he turned, and locked eyes with Lark. 

Then Lark had been on the roof, previously hammering away at shingles, but at that moment he had been looking down at Chamomile with, he remembered thinking, an oddly intense expression. 

Lark was, and had always been a handsome man. He’d been especially beautiful that day, in his prime and lit from behind by the sun. That, Chamomile remembered. 

Chamomile blinked. “I—that day? Really?”

Lark simply shrugged.

“I was—I was filthy! And exhausted, and arguing with Jevin Irontip, and—” Lark touched his face, derailing his thoughts.

“Chamomile.” Lark laughed, eyes shining, and Chamomile shuddered, surprised. He did not remember hearing his name from Lark ever before. “You’d been there since before dawn, helping. You were putting that ass Irontip in his place while Julep’s youngest slept on your back and  _ still _ you were smiling. You were gorgeous.” Lark’s brightness dimmed a notch, and he cut his eyes away. “And you were very young.”

Chamomile abandoned his pillow to huddle against his chest and kiss him until the slight tension that had come to his shoulders went away again.

“I suppose that’s why you waited.” He said gently. “But...so long? Almost twenty years.” 

Lark touched their foreheads with a soft tap, closing his eyes. “It came to be habit, I suppose. And then I did not want to pursue you, when it might have kept you from a lover your own age.”

Chamomile snorted to share his thoughts on that notion. “Well, hopefully you didn’t wait too late.” He said, with a deliberate wiggle on his pillows. 

In response to that, Lark rolled them over.

*

In the morning Chamomile woke alone again. He blinked sourly at the place beside him for a moment before sounds from elsewhere in the house reached his ears. 

Chamomile sat up, listening curiously, unable to pinpoint them. He dressed quickly, simply in a loose shirt and britches, and ventured out. 

A covered plate of breakfast was at his table, opposite a second that had been eaten from. He pulled back the cloth napkin to find eggs and buns stuffed with sausage and greens. None of those things did he have in his cupboards. 

“You brought breakfast?” He called to the house in general, uncertain where Lark had gotten to.

“Fetched it.” Came Lark’s reply from the hall. Chamomile took a bun and a bite off it, following his voice.

Lark was leaning in the doorway of the nursery, dressed but for his boots. Chamomile smiled in greeting, as if his heartbeat hadn’t just picked up.

“Fetched? From your home?”

Lark shrugged, looking back into the nursery. “I was restless.”

Chamomile, chewing another bite of roll, tracked his gaze to the mobile, or perhaps the window with its short lace curtains. 

He tried to see the nursery through Lark’s eyes. What did he think of his mother’s mural? Of his great-great-grandfather’s crib, or the rocker with its crooked leg? 

“My mother did the painting. The whole house.” He added, perhaps needlessly. 

“She was gifted.” Lark said, succinct. He drew a breath. “Have you…that is...” 

He trailed off with a grimace, rubbing his face with one hand. The lines around his eyes appeared deeper than usual.

Chamomile swallowed his mouthful and touched Lark’s arm, fingers gripping just above his elbow. Lark laid his hand overtop without a thought, looking down only when his fingertips brushed the polished edge of the cuff. 

Chamomile had slipped it on before leaving the bedroom. He grinned slowly, watching Lark’s face as comprehension dawned.

“I’ve thought about it.” he said, a little smug in the face of Lark’s slack-jawed expression. 

Funnily enough, they had not spent much time together, standing. Lark was fully a head taller than he was; Chamomile’s eyes came just a little higher than his collarbones. He didn’t know it until Lark pushed him against the doorframe and stooped to kiss him roughly. Chamomile went up on his toes to return the touch with matching enthusiasm. 

He was lightheaded when they parted, blinking. At some point his hands had been pinned above his head, one desperately clutching the remains of his breakfast. He’d thought he’d put them around Lark’s neck. 

Lark did not go far when he backed away. Chamomile could still feel his breath on his face.

“I started carving it fifteen years ago,” Lark said of the cuff, one of his thumbs riding the curve of a ring. “Off and on. It took five years. A few tries. It was difficult to get the wood thin enough, without snapping it. Hard to carve it.” 

He laid a kiss by Chamomile’s eye, gentle and reverent. “I tried so many kinds of wood.” 

“You should have said something.” Chamomile said against his jaw, almost inaudible. 

Lark only shook his head wordlessly, and allowed himself to be drawn down again. 

They made love on the rug in the nursery. When he came Chamomile was holding onto the bars of the old crib, squeezing with all his might as Lark’s knot passed into him. 

*

Later, Chamomile prepared tea as Lark found his way around the kitchen, making sandwiches for their lunch.

“I’m a middling cook, I’m afraid.” Chamomile, observing Lark’s puttering over his shoulder, confessed.

“We’re alike in that.” Lark answered easily. “I tend to undercook.”

“I burn.” Chamomile laughed. “Perhaps between the two of us we’ll manage.”

“One can only hope,” Lark said readily, with a face that did not suggest confidence.

Chamomile made to kiss his scruffy cheek, and hesitated with his lips a hair’s breadth from skin. Lark made an amused noise and closed the distance, one hand curving around Chamomile’s hip.

They set the table with tea stuffs, Lark’s sandwiches, and cut fruit. Chamomile ate quickly and chased a blueberry around his plate with a piece of uneaten crust, chewing his lip while Lark finished his own sandwich. 

The kitchen’s longest wall bore one of his mother’s murals, one that depicted a small fenced in garden, a little overgrown but fertile and healthy. Tomato plants were mixed in with cabbages and a dozen kinds of flowers, herb plants growing next to weeds. It wasn’t quite the garden through the backdoor, but the painting’s influences were obvious. 

“I don’t want to leave my home.” Chamomile blurted, and snapped his mouth shut again. He hadn’t quite meant to say it. He’d been dwelling on the thought off and on since making his decision regarding the cuff, and its proposal.

Lark didn’t seem startled. He finished his bite and swallowed. 

“Do you mind if I add a building to the property?” He asked.

Chamomile tilted his head in question, shook it. “I don’t.” He said, curious.

“A workshop.” Lark explained. “If you’ll have me, and allow me the space for my work, I have no issue with moving.”

Chamomile blinked repeatedly. “So easily? I—not that I’m complaining, mind you, but—I couldn’t…” He gestured weakly, meaning to indicate the house at large. “I couldn’t leave my home. I hate to ask that of you, either.”

Smiling faintly, Lark looked around them. Chamomile looked as well. His great-grandfather’s plates on a high shelf along one wall, his grandmother’s reading chair in the living room by the fire. The legs of the tables bore the doodles of more than one unobserved little one, and a tile by the oven was cracked, done by his father.

“How many generations of Greenthroats have lived here?” Lark asked.

“Five.” Chamomile said. He didn’t have to think about it. “My three-times-great grandmothers built it.”

“Five.” Lark said with a odd sigh, perhaps of yearning. “Do you know how many generations have lived in my house?”

Chamomile waited. They both knew he didn’t.

“One.” Lark said, with a wry smile. “Less than one, even. It’s a good little house. It’s done very well by me for a long time, but it’s not a home. Not like this place is.” 

He put his hands on the table and stood, coming around to Chamomile’s chair. Chamomile pushed away from his setting, watching his approach.

Lark knelt. He took Chamomile’s hands into his, resting his arms on Chamomile’s knees. 

“I want,” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. Chamomile watched in bemusement as a blush rose in Lark’s cheeks and neck. “I can picture children in this house. Under this table, pulling on my shoes. You in the garden with our child on your back.”

“Red curls?” Chamomile said breathlessly. His eyes were fixed on Lark’s, flicking back and forth between each overbright hazel orb. His chest burned with a slow, banked heat. 

A delighted sound escaped Lark. “And your lovely brown eyes.” He said warmly. He squeezed Chamomile’s hands in his. Brought them to his lips.

“Muddy footprints through the kitchen.” Chamomile continued his refrain dreamily, his attention split by the line of soft kisses Lark was leaving on the backs of his fingers. “Baby fussing in the other room…”

He wanted it. It had been a long time since it was more than just himself. 

Lark nipped one finger. Chamomile pushed his chair back and joined him on the floor.

*

They married in the magistrate’s office after the council meeting a week later. Chamomile had spots of paint on his face from watching the children, and Lark had wood curls in his pockets because they seemed to breed there. The small room and hallway outside it was crowded with well-wishers subtly elbowing for a view. Lark did not look at their audience, his ears faintly red. Chamomile endeavored to capture his attention as fully as possible. 

Chamomile wore the cuff, polished to a shine, with aster and white violets woven around its twisting length. Lark was adorned with a crown of forget-me-nots, holly, and ivy, and bore it with a solemnity that caused Chamomile to giggle whenever he looked up. Herri Wolfsnick, the magistrate, ignored these interruptions. 

Lark began construction on a workshop behind Chamomile’s family home, striking a steady but sedate pace. He was still hard at work answering Chamomile’s charm, and would not be easily distracted. 

Chamomile, too, had started a project: forking the path that ran from the kitchen to the garden. Sounds of hammering and sawing drifted from the back all hours of the day, and did not quite drown out the sound of Lark singing songs Chamomile’s grandfather had liked. He enjoyed the musical entertainment when he laid stones or worked in the garden. 

At his request, the crooked leg on the rocker was repaired. Chamomile aired the nursery and planted gloxinia and daisies in the window box. He scoured the shelves for literature on pregnancy and childrearing, stacking them on the ground when the pile grew too high for his nightstand.

Lark’s things appeared in the house in waves: a chest of clothes in the bedroom; a number of books in living room, awaiting assignment; a few personal knick knacks, which were either found space on the shelves or placed in their bedroom. 

The workshop’s structure was up before the end of summer came. Thom Whittlethorn loaned the use of his wagon and helped Lark move his tools and materials. It took a few trips over the course of the end of the season, but Lark was in no great hurry. 

Chamomile faced a daily influx of good wishes, gifts, and advice from Goldenbough’s childbearing population. Some anecdotes were helpful, others varying degrees of horrifying. He received cloth for diapers and tiny, hand-me-down outfits, worn soft from use. Maggie Brownbird gave him a recipe for a tea to aid conception. Tomas Riverbook recommended an herb to chew to bring his heat on faster. 

Chamomile greatly liked the flavor of Maggie’s tea. The house frequently smelled of raspberries.

When his heat came it was as what might be the last great storm of the season was blowing in, dark on the horizon. 

*

The house was dimly lit, though the curtains were all open. The light that came in was gray and minimal. Chamomile, having nothing to draw him out of the house that day, succumbed to the rare urge to sleep in. 

Despite that, it was not a particularly leisurely morning. He twisted in the blankets, twice threw off the quilt before fetching it again from the floor. He was restless, and aggrieved in his restlessness. Later he would think it markedly odd that he did not recognize the signs of imposing heat, despite having waited weeks for it to come. Possibly it was because it came early, though that too had been both desired and worked towards, this besides the addition of Lark’s alpha scent to his home. 

When Lark ventured into the house, driven away from his work by the sudden onslaught of rain, Chamomile was a quivering, foul-tempered ball beneath the quilt. 

Lark called him from the kitchen, and Chamomile only mumbled miserably into the sheets. His footsteps approached the bedroom.

“Chamo...mile.” Lark said, faltering. Chamomile made out the sound of a deep inhalation through the rumble of encroaching thunder, and felt the first stirrings of understanding. Lark’s boots were noisily discarded, and soon after he penetrated Chamomile’s blanket shell. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lark said, between long inhales. Chamomile refused to be drawn out, so Lark joined him beneath the quilt. Once they were together in that small, dark space, Chamomile felt his focus narrow rapidly. He came close on his knees to bury his nose in Lark’s throat. Lark always smelled wonderful, but now he was positively  _ eatable _ . 

“Tell you what?” Chamomile said, muffled, though he was beginning to think he knew. 

“You little fool,” Lark said fondly. 

It was not a long or difficult heat, as they sometimes could be. Chamomile’s mind was clearing as the storm was letting up. The day had passed as they were distracted, and Lark theorized that it could be close to dawn, and they would be deceived by the last of the dark clouds. 

Chamomile was pleasantly sore and sticky, and exhausted in a wonderfully uncomplicated way. He dragged Lark to him and arranged him to his liking, and promptly fell asleep on him. Lark chuffed overhead as he closed his eyes, and settled to follow. 

*

Weeks later, Chamomile was given cause to wonder if the reason his heat was so halfhearted was because he was already in the family way by the time it came. 

It suited quite well. They had, after all, been trying very hard. 

He had obsessively poured over his grandmother’s books and knew a very long list of symptoms to watch for. Still, he hesitated to think of it when he began having such strange, vivid dreams. The tenderness around his pelvis could be any  _ number _ of things, really, and the dizziness he’d felt at supper, well, he’d just stood up too fast.

It wasn’t until he nearly burst into tears over a particularly stubborn jar of pickled asparagus that he thought,  _ maybe _ . 

He froze at the kitchen counter, jar still clutched to his chest and hand poised over it in a grasping claw. His insides battered about. He was breathless and uncertain and, heavens, he felt such blasted  _ hope _ his body fairly sang.

Though he did not mark the change, the scratching of Lark’s pen behind him dwindled. His sudden tension had been noticed.

“Love?” Lark said. “Is something the matter?”

Bemusedly Charmomile looked to his jar of pickles for an idea of how to answer. It was the third jar he’d opened in the last few days, and good heavens, how had he not noticed?

“Nothing.” He said, gone pitchy. He cleared his throat. “I’m daft as an ant, is all.” He mumbled.

“Yep.” Said Gergie Everglow, as he once more did their washing, and took the chance to air his suspicion. “Sounds about right. I wanted for eggs, myself. Eggs with lemon juice and just a dash of horseradish.”

“Oh dear,” said Chamomile. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“But I’m not vomiting!” He said to Golden Longfeather, a week later, during an examination. “The books all say I’d be nauseous.”

“Lucky you,” said a vaguely green and rather pregnant Fazra Chickwillow from the next cot. She held a basin between her knees miserably.

Chamomile grimaced. “Sorry.”

Golden appeared amused, as she often did. “It’s early to be completely certain, but I am quite confident in my diagnosis.”

“So it’s not—too soon to tell my husband?” Chamomile asked, hesitant. He didn’t rightly know which answer he wanted.

“By all means,” Golden said, giving his knee a clinical pat. “Give him the news.”

*

That was just his problem. Chamomile didn’t know  _ how _ .

Almost two weeks since that third jar of pickles (he was on the seventh now, and the last he’d put up) and the knowledge of his likely state still caught him wrong-footed whenever he was reminded of it. Pregnant. Pregnant. He would finally have a child, the family he’d wanted for so long.

He pondered special ways he might surprise Lark with the news. A baby blanket laid across their bed? Shall he knit a little pair of booties as they sat together by the fire? He could leave his books open to helpful passages and mention his dreams more often, but no, Lark had read the same books Chamomile had.

Meanwhile, he doodled daisies on schoolwork he was meant to be grading for Charley Followbuck, and sang as he dusted the nursery with compulsive tenacity. When they went to bed, he found himself pressing his soft stomach against Lark’s harder flesh, imagining he was swollen.

Another symptom he had not thought to expect: his appetite for his husband had grown to levels that were rather distracting. He knew what his body wanted—to ascertain that his provider was there, that his alpha’s scent clung to him—but did it have to interrupt so many midday meals?

Chamomile heard the door, and called out a greeting so Lark would come to him, and he did, good man that he was. He was bright with labor and bloodflow, his skin pink and glowing with the first flush before sweat broke. 

He smelled absolutely  _ divine _ . Chamomile had put down his mending and gone to him before he realized. Clair Feastgive’s busted seams would have to wait.

Lark anticipated him, and his arms were open as Chamomile stepped into them. His nose went straight for the corner of his jar, nuzzling hair and ear for that heady scent. Chamomile’s fingers plucked at Lark’s shirt ties with a mind of their own. Whatever it was he held in his hand tickled Chamomile’s nape, but he ignored it.

Lark turned his face up determinedly and caught his eyes.

“Chamomile,” he said, and laughed as Chamomile darted up to steal a kiss. “There is something I’ve been trying to say, and I haven’t known how.”

“Mm?” Said Chamomile, giving up on the shirt. Far more efficient to unlace his pants anyway. “Say, my love?”

“Yes, and I still haven’t found the words.” Lark huffed. 

He thrust something under Chamomile’s chin, and Chamomile manfully forced himself to step back far enough to see what it was. 

It was…”Daisies?” He said, puzzled, as he took the bouquet from Lark, who appeared pleased.

“Chamomile,” he said again. “These past weeks, as you’ve worked for pickles and ferretted off with half of my shirts and lept at me as if starved at every narrowest opportunity—” here Chamomile flushed, and Lark hastened to reassure him— ”That is hardly a complaint, my love. What I’m getting to is that I’ve developed a theory.”

“A theory?” Chamomile repeated dumbly, holding his bouquet of daisies.

“Yes.” Said Lark, and covered Chamomile’s hands with his own. “I could be wrong, but…I think you might be...”

“Pregnant?” Chamomile said, in the same voice. 

Well, this was perhaps  _ most _ unexpected, wasn’t it?

Lark kissed him, curving over the flowers, fingers gently curling over his elbows.


End file.
